


Debut

by qaftsiel



Series: Infinitely Stranger 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qaftsiel/pseuds/qaftsiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Detective Inspector and the British Government make for an interesting welcoming party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debut

**Author's Note:**

> This really won't make a whit of sense without reading Infinitely Stranger first. 
> 
> The long and short of it is this: people wanted baby dragons.

            Shrill beeping splits the air.

 

            Greg Lestrade jerks awake and sends a stack of paperwork and his mobile phone tumbling to the floor.

 

            A lot of cursing and fumbling happens before Greg finally unearths his mobile ad answers the call. “Hello?” If he sounds half-asleep and a bit cranky at three AM, it’s probably because he _is_ half-asleep and cranky at three AM—he’s not exempt from sleep requirements by dint of dragon-ness. One would think that the Digital Era would bring about some sort of revolution in paperwork (read: an abolition thereof), but one would also be sorely mistaken. At this rate, the Powers That Be will be demanding he bury forms in triplicate for two weeks to ferment properly before being signed and sent on to the higher-ups. His nightmares consist of signing his name on copy after copy of the same form, over and over and over and over.

 

            When Mycroft Holmes’ silken tenor comes through the phone a bit breathless, however, Greg’s exhaustion and irritability vanish. He snatches up the fallen papers, barely bothering to sort them before shoving them into his briefcase (new, leather, richly understated: Mycroft’s doing), slamming it shut, and bolting from his office.

 

            One unused briefing room and several quickly (but carefully!) scribbled runes later, Greg steps out of the Yard and through the fixed gate in the window of Mycroft’s study. He leaves his briefcase on the floor, flings aside the bookcase door after barking the password, and scrambles down the spiral stair. “Mycroft!” he calls as he bursts into the under-study proper.

 

            For all that he and Mycroft play at humanity, there are certain instincts common to all dragonkind that simply must be indulged. Collections are perhaps the best-known dragonish tic, but the absolute _need_ for a hidden, quiet, secure space easily eclipses the collector’s itch in terms of priority. Mycroft is no exception.

 

            Mycroft’s saferoom sits about three metres beneath the ground-floor study of his country home. Built originally as a bunker by a rich, paranoid man just before the start of the Cold War, the following homeowners had expanded it into an appreciably-sized basement. Mycroft’s tenure has turned it from a basement into a place Greg privately thinks of as The Diogenes Club: Underground Master Bedroom Edition. The walls and floors are all oak (except for the loo; that’s all fine granite and bone white porcelain), most of the furniture is cherry or mahogany and nearly as old as Greg, the rugs are all Persian and still faintly redolent of saffron, and everything is lit by upright lamps covered by embroidered, silken shades with shiny bits around the rims.

 

            After three years of living down here whilst minding the clutch, there’s a bit of Greg starting to appear here and there throughout the room—a set of coasters emblazoned with the Chelsea FC crest, Ken Follett and Warren Ellis tucked in amongst Mycroft’s Sun Tzu and Dostoyevsky, a healthy collection of classic and punk rock albums sitting side-by-side with Bach, Mendelssohn, Britten, and Sibelius—so the sheer posh-ness of everything isn’t quite as off-putting as it had been initially.

 

            “Gregory,” Mycroft calls from the loo, auburn hair and an aquiline nose making a brief appearance as he ducks around the doorframe. Greg throws his jacket over the back of one of the overstuffed armchairs and rolls up his sleeves as he joins Mycroft in the loo.

 

            Figuring out where to put the clutch had been one of those rare situations where Greg had been the expert on the subject. As their bargain with Ddraig had strictly prohibited Greg from taking the clutch back to his family’s nesting grounds in southern France, he’d scouted out Mycroft’s saferoom and deemed the man’s ridiculous, claw-footed bathtub an adequate substitute for the deep, sand-filled nesting bowls favoured by his family. Mycroft had not been best pleased by the sight of his favourite bath filled to the brim with ultrafine sand and etched with heating charms and anti-bacterial, anti-fungal wards, but his complaints had lessened after Greg forced him to help bed the clutch in the warm sands. Giving people ownership of something always does serve to make them a bit more willing to cooperate with it, Greg finds.

 

            Mycroft has his sleeves rolled to his elbows as he gently works one of the eggs free of its place. Cradling the football-sized sphere, he strides to the bed, where he deposits the egg on the sheets without regard for the sand still clinging to it and his hands. “Watch it,” he tells Greg, and goes back into the loo at that same hurrying-but-trying-very-hard-not-to-look-hurried pace, presumably to fetch one of the remaining five.

 

            Greg doesn’t need to be told twice. He climbs onto the bed and curls around the rocking egg, tapping over the eggshell with one knuckle. “Come on out, you,” he tells it. “We're here now. Come on out and meet us.” Normally he’d prefer to be in his native form—it’s tradition during a hatching—but Mycroft’s under-study is nowhere near large enough to accommodate him, even if he curls up. At least Greg’s never bothered to mask his scent; hatchlings imprint on smell just as much as appearance. “We’re here. Come and see us.” He taps the shell a few more times.

 

            The scrapes and movement from the egg pause briefly at Greg’s taps and then redouble as the hatchling responds to the stimulus.

 

            Two more eggs join the first against Greg’s belly; Mycroft turns on his heel to go get the others. Greg chuckles. “Mycroft. Mycroft, hey.” When Mycroft pauses and looks back, Greg gestures. “Come here.”

 

            Mycroft obeys reluctantly. To anyone else, he’d look perfectly composed, but Greg knows his little tells after three years in close quarters. His ramrod posture practically shouts ‘anxious, stressed’. “Yes, Gregory?”

 

            Greg circles his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist and tugs him onto the bed; shifting his grip, he guides Mycroft in rapping on the eggshell. Mycroft’s eyes widen when the hatchling gives a vigorous wiggle in response. “I don’t know how much you know about dragon hatchings,” Greg begins, “but the little guy hasn’t even pipped yet.” He spreads both hands around the egg; football-sized as it is, he doesn’t cover all of it. Still, it’s enough to get a sense of the spot where the hatchling is focussing its efforts. He places Mycroft’s hand over the patch of eggshell. “The time between pip and hatch can be anywhere from twenty minutes to several hours.”

 

            Mycroft delicately taps on the shell again. The egg wobbles and a muffled peep emanates from it.  Greg beams; Mycroft’s eyebrows twitch upward (as close to goggling as Greg has ever seen him get, honestly). “How is that possible?” He tips the egg this way and that, searching for a hole of some sort. The hatchling responds with more peeping. “Will it not suffocate? Should we assist it?”

 

            Greg takes Mycroft’s hands and holds them. The hatchling’s peeps (definitely vexed by this point) settle. “Easy, Myc. Have you ever had a hard-boiled egg with the shell still on?”

 

            Mycroft nods.

 

            “Think about it. The bottom of the egg has that little air pocket, right? Dragon’s eggs have the same sort of thing. There’s enough air for twelve to twenty hours in there.”

 

             Mycroft looks a little pale. “I am not certain I will ever enjoy eggs again now that you have compared them to the clutch,” he remarks as he slides off the bed. “I am going to bring the others. I want all of them here.” He lifts his chin and doesn’t make eye contact as he says this—Greg can see him trying very, very hard to silently deny even the possibility that he wants the whole clutch present for sentimental reasons.

 

             Once Mycroft returns with the last three eggs, he busies himself piling up blankets and sheets and pillows, fussing with all the dignity he can muster. It’s hard not to laugh, but Greg restrains himself—frankly, he finds it pleasing and reassuring that Mycroft is willing to set aside his usual aloof, proud demeanor for his parental instincts. He’s not about to discourage it by embarrassing the man with his giggles.

 

            Mycroft sighs as he settles into the nest of pillows and blankets opposite Greg, bracketing the clutch between their bodies. “I take it that we are to wait at this point?”

 

            Greg nods. “Yep. Now we wait.”

 

* * *

 

            About fifteen minutes later, a soft _snick_ announces the first hatchling’s pip.

 

Alerted by the sound, Mycroft and Gregory watch closely as a tiny, silvery-coral snout pokes and pushes until an irregular triangle of shell finally falls away from the rest of the egg. The hatchling lets out a squeak and rests, little nostrils flaring as it sucks in its first breaths of outside air.

 

            Gregory takes Mycroft’s hand and brings it down so that both of their fingertips hover just next to the hatchling’s tiny muzzle. “Hello, you,” Gregory says warmly. “Well done, little one. Here we are.”

 

            A narrow, pointed, pink tongue darts out, snakelike, brushing Mycroft’s fingertips as lightly as a feather. Mycroft’s heart does something that lends credence to the tired, foolish notion of ‘skipping a beat. Just as quickly as it appeared, the little pink tongue disappears and then flickers back out, this time testing the pad of Greg’s index finger. A few minutes of stillness pass, and then the hatchling renews its bid for escape, scraping and scratching away at the edges of its little window.

 

            Mycroft picks up the triangle of shell and brings it close for examination. It looks and feels much like ceramic, dense and cool to the touch, but tiny divots evenly speckle the outer surface, as if someone has left needle-pricks all over the shell. He tries to break it and is surprised by the effort required. “It is quite thick,” he remarks, showing Gregory the piece. “Half a centimetre, at least. Are you certain we should not be assisting?”

 

            There is a crunch and crackle as the hatchling shoves away another section of shell. Mycroft catches a glimpse of tiny claws as they tear at the leathery membrane just inside the shell. “This one seems fine,” Gregory says as they watch cracks spider outward from the edges of the hatchling’s work. “If the others have trouble, we’ll help. Besides, as tough as eggs are to outside force, they’re pretty easy to break from inside.”

 

            Mycroft looks at Gregory questioningly. “You remember that?”

 

            Gregory shrugs. “Course I do. By the time I hatched, I was three years old—I’d been listening for nearly a year at that point.” At Mycroft’s shocked look, he chuckles. “It’s natural for us, waking up in the shell. We learn language and our parents’ voices.”

 

            Mycroft looks down at the clutch. “How much language?”

 

            “Depends on how much we’ve been talked to,” Gregory responds with another shrug. “My parents talked a lot—Père recounted his clan history and his ideas about law and justice, and Maman told stories about my great-great-grandmother’s adventures as a Minoan queen’s handmaiden.” He smiles. “Père spoke in _Dragon_ —” here, ‘dragon’ is said so strangely and gutturally that Mycroft barely recognises the word, “—English, French, and Latin. Maman spoke _Dragon_ , French, and Greek. I hatched conversational in all four, if not fluent.”

 

            “Oh,” Mycroft says. Gregory has been very flexible about the Bilderberg conventions and emergency call-ins from the Home Office, but the bulk of Mycroft’s day-to-day work has been carried out by conference call in the comfort of the understudy’s plush chairs and crackling fireplace. He sincerely hopes the hatchlings have picked up on the need for discretion in addition to the double handful of languages Mycroft has used throughout the past three years; it would be terribly awkward to have six children with heads full of high-level international policy and no filters to speak of.

 

            A chunk of shell pops away with a snap, opening up a window large enough that the hatchling is able to snake its head out of the gap after a bit of wiggling. Mycroft is fascinated—the hatchling’s scales seem almost translucent, like miniscule droplets of iridized, coral-pink glass. Its eyes are enormous and so very blue as it blinks up at him and Gregory. When it speaks, its voice is clear and soft like a bird’s. “I am here, Papa, Père. I request assistance.” Its accent is almost identical to Mycroft’s, right down to the rounded vowels and crisp plosives.

 

            Mycroft looks at Gregory, who chuckles. “All right then,” he replies, “though I won’t do all the work. Agreed?”

 

            The hatchling blinks. “Acceptable,” it says, and slides back into its shell so it can start working at the gap again.

 

            Smiling warmly, Gregory sits up carefully and gestures for Mycroft to do the same. “When a hatchling asks for help, unless they’re in actual distress, it’s best to coach them through it. The effort it takes to hatch is important for lung development.” He looks over the shell and picks at cracks thoughtfully. After a moment, he taps an unbroken spot. “Push here with your tail and back feet.”

 

            The egg wiggles as the hatchling moves. There is a quiet moment, a crackle, and then a wet, short crunch as the top of the egg gives way to two tiny feet and a curled tail.

 

            Gregory gently reaches in and lifts the hatchling free of its... her shell. She uncurls her tail and neck, straightens little legs, and opens tiny wings so gossamer-thin that her bone structure is clearly visible through the near-colourless membranes; properly uncurled, she is about the size of a large housecat. She glimmers in the light, more than the amount of wet in the shell would merit—her scales are truly glasslike, shiny and peachy and clear.

 

            Grinning, Gregory turns the hatchling and deposits her in Mycroft’s arms.

 

            Mycroft, too surprised to protest, finds himself cradling her instinctively, heart pounding with wonder and terror at how tiny, warm, and _fragile_ she is against him. There is simply no way around it—she is _beautiful_. His self-control falters enough in the face of her that the comment leaves his lips before he can stop it.

 

            The hatchling rests her head against his chest. “Père, you are warm. What is beautiful?”

 

            “Pleasing to the senses or the mind,” Mycroft responds automatically, suddenly reminded of the early days when Sherlock never ceased to ask such questions. The rush of protectiveness that sweeps through him at the memory is not entirely unexpected. He cradles her closer. “Beautiful.”

 

            “Aglaïa,” Gregory says. “Er. If that’s okay with you, Myc.”

 

            Mycroft looks down at the hatchling, who blinks back up at him with huge, dark, denim-blue eyes. He wonders if they will stay that way, like his own, or if they will deepen to Gregory’s rich cacao. He wonders how big she might grow to be if she survives to adulthood. Protective instinct rears up again, so fiercely that Mycroft knows his priorities have forever been altered. “Aglaïa,” he says to the hatchling, tucking her a bit closer. “That is your name.” The name of the ancient Greek personification of splendour is decidedly apropos.

 

            “Oh,” she says. “I like that.” She curls her foreclaws in the cloth of Mycroft’s dressing gown and closes her eyes; her breathing levels into the soft, slow puffs of sleep almost immediately.

 

            “Let her sleep,” Gregory murmurs when Mycroft looks up at him questioningly, reaching across the clutch to gently stroke the top of her head with the backs of his fingers. “Lie down or go sit in one of the overstuffed chairs, but keep holding her. She’ll remember this day for the rest of her life.”

 

            Mycroft settles into the armchair a moment later, Aglaïa held close against his chest. He gazes down at her, remembering that day when Mummy had come home from hospital with Sherlock. He remembers watching as she sank back into her favourite loveseat, tucking Sherlock against her chest, bare skin to bare skin, folding the lapels of her nightgown around him like silk wings. He remembers wiggling his way into the space between Mummy’s hip and the arm of the loveseat, watching as Sherlock’s tiny hands opened and closed.

 

            Gently, he tugs the lapels of his dressing gown free and drapes them over Aglaïa’s back.

 

            The thick, leather-bound book containing his running record of his collection is in its usual place on the table next to the chair. Opening it, Mycroft carefully sets about recording Aglaïa’s debut under one of the six blank pages labelled ‘clutch’.

 

            When the entry—an entire page of his neatest, smallest script—is finished, he leaves himself a note to procure a new volume (possibly a set thereof, as there are five hatchlings yet to emerge) in which to record further details. Children, after all, are given to a great deal of change, and one page will not be enough to record everything properly. He also leaves a note to update the ‘languages spoken’ and ‘age’ sections of Gregory’s entry (which might require a volume of its own at some point as well—what is one more book, after all, when the Commonwealth takes up nearly ten volumes?).

 

            When all is said and done, he blots the pages and shuts the book. The airy thud is deeply satisfying—he takes great pleasure in having a complete inventory of his everything.

 

            Well. A complete inventory of his everything thus far, at any rate; he has plenty of shelf space left.

 

            Enough for a world, in fact.

**Author's Note:**

> I have the vague, creeping fear that I've horribly mangled the characterisations in this.
> 
> The Bilderberg Group is definitely a thing, and it's precisely the sort of thing Mycroft would probably be Chairman of the Steering Committee for (or perhaps shadow Chairman; he seems to avoid the limelight). Think of around one hundred and forty of the most powerful people in Europe and North America getting together and having a chat every summer. Just a chat. No plans, plots, policy talk, votes, agendas, or any of that. That would be dreadfully gauche.


End file.
